


Healing The Heart

by Musicalrain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Fanboy Phil Coulson, Fluff, Friendship, Gender-neutral Reader, Getting Together, M/M, Mutant Powers, Mutant Reader, Other, Post-Avengers (2012), Reader-Insert, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:45:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musicalrain/pseuds/Musicalrain
Summary: You're a mutant and a Captain America fan-geek who often flails about Captain America with your online-friend Phil. Your life has been pretty normal - hiding your abilities and being cautious of everyone around you - but soon your life gets turned upside down when a redheaded woman claiming to be a police officer comes looking for you...





	Healing The Heart

You’re fumbling for your keys when you see a woman with bright red hair and a sleek pantsuit loitering outside of your workplace. Well, maybe loitering isn’t the right word. She’s standing very still and she’s looking very intense at nothing. But maybe that shouldn’t be all that strange - just the day before aliens attacked New York. You’re sure a lot of people are on edge considering the sheer  _ insanity _ of that. And that’s not even taking into account just how horrible the destruction of the city is - the lives lost, the displaced, the homes and livelihoods obliterated.  

 

Your boss was nice enough not to close up for the day, even though you’re sure nearly everyone else in the whole of America is closed, whether it be in mourning or terror or consternation. It seems like nearly everyone knew someone who was affected; six degrees of the Battle of New York. 

 

As you get closer to the woman and the entrance to the building, her eyes snap to you and you stop abruptly at the sheer force of her focus. 

 

“Just who I was looking for,” she says smoothly, taking a step towards you and reaching for your elbow in a surprisingly hard grip. “You’re coming with me.”

 

You balk, “What? Who are you?”

 

“Police,” she flashes you a badge from the New York Police Department. 

 

That doesn’t even make sense.

 

“What is this even about? I haven’t done anything,” you struggle ineffectively against her hold as she pulls you towards a sleek, black car, “And I’m pretty sure this isn’t even your jurisdiction. You can’t just-”

 

“Look,” she fixes you with a fierce stare. “I was told to get you. I was told you were the only one who could save him.”

 

You feel your stomach drop, thoughts and panic swirling in your head, and she uses your momentary distraction to push you the last bit into the car.

 

The thing is, what she said isn’t much of a shock. You’re a mutant; you can save anyone. The problem is, there’s only a handful of people who know you’re a mutant and that you can heal. After your abilities manifested, your parents taught you to hide them. They were afraid for you - of the people who would take advantage of someone with such a gift. They were afraid that you would be used, toyed with, experimented on, singled out and hunted because of your abilities. 

 

And it isn’t even that hard to imagine - to what lengths would someone go to save a loved one? To save themselves? There are probably hundreds, if not thousands, of people in the world with the means of using you to prolong their life. And that’s not including the gangs and armies willing to use someone like you to heal their soldiers and give them unfair advantages. And all this hinges on you being discovered. 

 

The world can be a dark place, and so far you’ve been lucky not to suffer that firsthand, but this… this woman and being in this car going to who-knows-where and being forced to heal who-knows-who, it’s all your fears realised. 

 

The sound of the engine starting snaps you out of the haze of panic, and you struggle to open the car door - finding it locked. 

 

“Let me out!” You shout, and she turns towards you with a blank face - one so devoid of any emotion that it arrests your movements. 

 

“No,” she tells you simply, and pulls out of the parking lot. “After you’ve finished, I’ll return you.”

 

You don’t believe her, you don’t trust her, and you fight all the harder for it.

* * *

 

When you next open your eyes, you’re on a plane. Or maybe it’s a jet. You’re not sure, you don’t even remember passing out. 

 

Or - as you spy the woman who claims to be a police officer - you don’t remember being knocked out.

 

You glare at her from where she’s sat across from you, but she seems unmoved. “Where am I?” Your voice cracks at the end of the question, and your eyes burn. Regardless of what happened to you, you take a moment to close your eyes and concentrate on making yourself feel better.

 

It only takes a moment, and when you next open your eyes, she says, “We’re on our way to New York.”

 

“Where in New York?” You ask irritably.

 

“A hospital,” she shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

 

You suppose it doesn’t.

 

You spend the remainder of the flight in brooding silence, quietly panicking over all the terrible ways this could go.

 

* * *

 

She’s quick to usher you off the plane and into another black car once you land. Her hand is still firm on your elbow, but you don’t even try to pull away this time. You’re resigned to your fate, whatever it might be.

 

But it seems that she actually does take you to a hospital - after you’ve spent hours in traffic and gazed with wet eyes out of the car’s window at the destruction of the city. So much death. So much loss and pain.

 

You feel an enormous amount of guilt over not jumping on a plane yourself and going to New York to heal as many people as you can. You wanted to - you were set to while you watched the live footage of aliens raining out of the sky - but it’s just not safe. It’s not safe for you - not safe for your family, your friends, and anyone who could possibly be used as leverage if some ill-minded person were to discover you. 

 

You learned that you just can’t heal whomever you want whenever you so please. People get suspicious when someone with cancer suddenly doesn’t, people get afraid of mutants showing their powers, people think it’s unnatural, and some people would take advantage. 

 

You learned that kindness being granted to a mutant is rare.

 

You learned that your abilities are valuable, that being a mutant makes you a target, and because of that, you’ve had to develop a severe case of caution over everything that you do with those abilities. 

 

You do still heal - you can’t  _ not _ , but you’re careful. 

 

If they’re not one of the handful of people that know you’re a mutant - then they’re usually not aware that you’re healing them. You’re careful not to do too much - you don’t make the cancer up and disappear, but you lessen the symptoms, shrink the tumors, and give them a better chance. You heal little kids’ boo-boos and make co-workers’ headaches go away. It’s small stuff, but it makes you feel good all the same.

 

You wonder just what this woman is expecting of you; who she wants you to heal, and what the injury could possibly be. 

 

Looking at the city - looking at the overflowing hospital parking lot and the chaos just outside of the building - it has to be hell.

* * *

 

She leads you through the throngs of people with an ease that seems unreal. And deadly - you spotted the firearm on her belt. You wonder who she is - you figure she’s not actually a police officer, but maybe she’s something like it. You hope she’s one of the good guys and not a gang enforcer, or worse.

 

You really have no choice but to hope she’s a good guy.

 

But how did she know who you are?  _ What  _ you are? You wonder if someone told her. Or if someone has a way of tracking mutants and finding their whereabouts. You’ve heard rumors that that Professor Xavier can do something like that - maybe she works for him? 

 

Those thoughts are derailed when she leads you to… a security checkpoint. You don’t know what else to call the two looming guys in combat gear standing outside a heavy wooden door. It’s unexpected, and sorta terrifying, but the woman just nods her head sharply and the two guys stand aside.

 

This must be a big deal.

 

It’s just a  _ tad _ intimidating.

 

She pushes the door open ahead of you and jerks her head towards the inside of the room. “He’s in here.”

 

You’ve been working dozens of scenarios in your head, but this wasn’t one of them. 

 

The person - the man - on the hospital bed is your friend Phil.

 

You’re momentarily arrested by the sight of him; you’ve never met him in person, but you would recognize him anywhere.

 

You met him on a Captain America forum years ago, and you’ve been online-buddies since. You follow each other, have written fanfic together, discussed the pros and cons of Captain America’s shield at length, and have even exchanged holiday cards.

 

“I thought he lived in Portland,” you blurt.

 

The redheaded woman raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow, “He doesn’t,” she tells you simply. “He’s been stabbed through the heart; his condition is not stable.”

 

You suck in a breath through your teeth and rush over to his bedside, not questioning anything else for the time being. 

 

When you reach him, your hands hover over his prone body - he’s got IVs, wires hooked up, and a breathing tube shoved down his throat - but it’s for the barest of seconds before your fingertips graze his, and you can  _ feel _ what’s wrong.

 

Awareness of anything else leaves you as you focus solely on healing his injuries. You’ve tried to describe what it’s like to  _ touch _ someone like this - feel their pains and just  _ know _ how to make it right - but you’ve never found words good enough. It’s like you suddenly have a peculiar connection with another person in a single, specific way. You can control the intensity of the healing, and where, but you can only do so much. The healing isn’t spontaneous in your presence - you have to focus, and, in some cases, you have to be quick. You can make mistakes, and you can make things worse - it’s happened before.

 

Time becomes a distant thing as you slowly begin to mend flesh and sinew. You can feel each heartbeat grow stronger, can feel the healthy rush of blood beneath his skin, and can sense his growing awareness, connected as you are. 

 

Moments after you take your hands away, his eyelids begin to flutter. You suck in an involuntary breath, hoping for the best. You don’t know what caused his trauma in the first place; you don’t know if there’s any damage you missed. His brain could’ve been deprived of oxygen-rich blood for too long, he could have injuries elsewhere, and he could be traumatized, prone to shock. Who knows what he’s been through. You may have to try healing him again, stretching your senses and digging up any damage. You prepare yourself as his eyes open.

 

He can’t talk with the tube in his throat, but his eyes slowly find your face, and stay there. You take this as a good sign.

 

There’s movement behind you, and the woman who’s not-a-cop slides to your side. “Good,” she breathes, and then smiles fleetingly at Phil. “I’ll find a nurse.”

 

She leaves the room with a soft click of the door, and you’re left there with Phil. Your friend, who’s inexplicably in New York and who had a hole in his chest.

 

You’re so confused.

 

“So, hi,” you say awkwardly, being the only one able to talk and wanting to fill the silence. “Um, I’m a mutant and I healed your injuries,” you tell him, oh so helpfully. You wince as your words register in your brain, “I mean, you probably already knew that. Somehow,” you mutter the last under your breath.

 

You don’t know what to think, but Phil must’ve somehow figured out you’re a mutant. You’ve never told him even though you consider him a friend - you’ve never met him in person before, and  _ if _ you tell someone, you like to tell them in person; you think it’s the kind of thing that warrants that.

 

And he must’ve told the woman who brought you here at some point. Or maybe she’s the one who figured out who you are? 

 

There’s too many questions swirling about, and not enough answers.

 

A nurse comes in then, trailed by the redheaded woman, saving you from having to say anything else. After a quick check, the nurse pages the doctor. Phil stares at you the entire time, and you don’t know what to make of that. The redhead nods towards the door as the doctor enters, and you follow her out into the hall. The armed men are still there, and you glance at them as she turns to face you.

 

“We’re in the ICU,” she tells you evenly, “you can go into any room you want.”

 

And you know that she’s telling you to heal people.  _ Everyone _ .

 

You jump at the chance; at this illusion of freedom in this way you’ve never had before.

 

To freely be a mutant - to freely  _ heal _ . 

 

You spend the next few hours - you’re not entirely sure how much time passed - healing everything from burns, to crush injuries, to broken bones, and ruptured organs stitched together.

 

The woman leaves you to it, and after a time, she finds you standing by a drinking fountain splashing water on your face.

 

You’re exhausted. You’ve never healed so much, such complicated injuries, all in one go like this before.

 

“My name is Natasha,” she tells you, and you blink at her stupidly. “Coulson… Phil is very important to me,” her eyes are boring into yours, and you can’t look away, “So thank you,” she says very carefully, enunciating every syllable, “for saving his life.”

 

You break eye contact with her and say nothing, a tad uncomfortable at the sheer emotion in her words, and not knowing what you could possibly say that would match her sincerity. Phil means a lot to you too, and you’re glad that you were able to heal him.

 

You think you spy understanding in her expression when she grasps hold of your shoulder and steers you down the hall. “Come, Phil wishes to speak with you.”

 

* * *

 

Phil is very much awake and aware when you enter his room again - he’s sitting up in his hospital bed with color in his cheeks and free of nearly all tubes and wires.

 

He smiles at you both - blue eyes flicking from one to the other - and holds your gaze for a moment before addressing Natasha.

 

“We’ll debrief later,” he tells her. His voice is rough.

 

“Yes, sir,” she says with a twitch of her lips, and adds when it looks like Phil’s hesitating, “Everyone is accounted for. Sir.”

 

“Good,” he breathes, and she turns to leave the room. She leaves you there in the middle space before Phil’s hospital bed.

 

You feel such relief to see him well.

 

But, still… “What’s going on?” You ask, all your earlier worries surfacing to the forefront of your thoughts.

 

“I-” he starts, then shakes his head, rubbing at his throat with a grimace. 

 

The breathing tube. “Here,” you offer an outstretched hand and take a step closer when he nods. You touch his wrist gently, and concentrate on the pains in his throat.

 

“Thank you,” he says after a moment, voice clearer, stronger. 

 

“I have so many questions,” you tell him, and you can feel the panic seeping into the edges of your expression.

 

He grunts, and you realise you’re squeezing his wrist.

 

“Sorry,” you squeak, releasing his wrist, but he quickly catches your hand.

 

“You have nothing to apologize for, I-” It seems he’s at a loss for words, and his expression pinches briefly before he says on an exhale, “My name’s Phil Coulson. Not Phil Collins. I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, or SHIELD.” 

 

You’re trying to wrap your head around that - what’s  _ SHIELD  _ \- as he continues, “My name, my job - it’s classified, and I couldn’t tell you when we… met,” he finishes awkwardly, and it looks like he’s debating with himself briefly before he continues. “I looked you up,” he seems embarrassed - color hinting at his cheeks. “I understand it’s an invasion of privacy, but you have to be careful in this line of work, and-”

 

“Wait,” you interrupt him. “My abilities wouldn’t be in a background check,” you tell him, a touch suspicious and confused.

 

“You were in Professor Xavier’s database. It looked like he wanted you to attend his academy some years ago, but your parents had declined.”

 

Now you’re trying to wrap your mind around  _ that _ . “But how does that explain Natasha? Does she work for Professor Xavier?”

 

“No, SHIELD. I’m her handler.”

 

“So you told her?” You ask, trying to understand.

 

“We’re… friends,” he attempts to explain, and you’re not sure if he’s talking about you and him or him and Natasha. “It seemed imperative. If something were to… happen.”

 

“Okay,” you take a breath, and you release his hand when you realise you’re still holding it. “So you’re some kind of secret agent and you had a secret agent friend of yours get me when you were stabbed in the chest by something.” 

 

You look at him, wildeyed as a thought suddenly strikes you, “Are we even really friends? Or did you just befriend me for my abilities?” He could’ve looked through Professor Xavier’s records before you “met”. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was all a farce… Having someone with healing abilities in your pocket when you’re a secret agent sounds both useful for that agent and something a secret agent would jump at.

 

“No!” He’s quick to say, sitting straight up and grasping at your shoulder, desperate to convey his honesty. “Of course we’re friends.” He sucks in a breath, “Our friendship means a lot to me.”

 

You study his face - he seems earnest, but you don’t know what to believe. This is all so much.  _ Too _ much.

 

At your silence, he adds, “I’ve only told you the truth since I woke up.”

 

“But you lied, before,” you counter, a tad bitterly. “Our friendship meant a lot to me too,” you find yourself admitting, “But now-”

 

“It means more,” he interrupts, and you’re surprised by the emotion in his eyes, so blue and yet so warm. “If it wasn’t for you I probably would have died, slowly and unaware. I owe you everything.”

 

You look away, overtaken by emotion and unsure of how to reply to that kind of gratitude. 

 

“Tell me how I can prove to you I’m not lying, and I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

He takes you to Stark Tower.

 

The building looks wrecked, and the area around it isn’t in any better shape. You don’t see anyone on the sidewalks either, and it doesn’t sit well with you, being this deep in Manhattan. The whole thing is eerie, and in turn it makes you withdrawn, reserved, as you look at Phil and wonder what he’s even doing.

 

You asked him to just prove himself, and so after he’d asked Natasha to get him released from the hospital, he whisks you all off to Stark Tower. He didn’t explain why.

 

You’re a mess of emotions right now - questioning how much to trust Phil, how much to  _ believe _ him. You don’t lie to yourself; you  _ want _ to trust him - he’s your friend, and you treasure each and every friend you have. And, in the secret recesses of your mind, a part of you had even entertained the idea of approaching Phil as something, well,  _ more _ . 

 

You’ve said that his friendship meant a lot to you, but even despite never seeing him in person before now, you felt close to him in a way that you weren’t close to many others. You clicked almost instantly, and your fondness for him grew quickly in the early stages of your acquaintanceship. 

 

And now you’ve saved his life, and you’re trusting him with your own safety and wellbeing. Mostly, you’re trusting him to not be like those horrible people your parents warned you of.

 

Even though you’ve done so much in the hospital, you’re still careful here. It was a liberating, challenging experience, but you’ve always been cautious. Your trust has been shaken, and your tendency to be wary with anyone regarding your abilities is hard to shake.

 

You don’t think Phil is someone to be afraid of, but it’s hard to place what you  _ should _ be feeling towards him.

 

You’re quiet through the whole process of Phil parking the car and then leading you and Natasha to an elevator. You’re even quiet while he speaks to someone through the speakers and takes you to the penthouse. And you’re quiet when you wonder at what he’s planning to do - why did he bring you here?

 

When the elevator’s doors open, it’s evident that the damage you saw to the building on the outside took place here - an entire section of one wall is missing and the whole room is trashed. 

 

But despite that, there’s people here too. Natasha slides around you both and walks calmly towards a man in a purple t-shirt. The man in the t-shirt looks up, and promptly freezes in place when he looks towards you and Phil.

 

Then suddenly it’s a flurry of large bodies and loud voices yelling above the whipping wind as everyone crowds around you and Phil. Well, just Phill, really. 

 

It seems like they’re in shock that he’s alive.

 

You quickly learn that these people thought he was dead, and so you awkwardly slide away as they crowd around your friend. 

 

They clearly care for him a great deal, and you don’t know what to do in the face of their relief and exuberance.

 

You only recognize one person in the lot of them - Tony Stark. And that’s not a surprise - this is his Tower - but you’re surprised that he knows Phil, and that Phil matters so much to him.

 

But then again, you don’t really know as much as you thought you did about Phil. Him being familiar with someone like Tony Stark shouldn’t be so much of a surprise.

 

After their excitement dies down, Phil seeks you out and breaks away from the group to go to you.

 

“Hey,” he says, and there’s a lightness in his eyes that wasn’t there before; a slight smile on his lips and poorly contained happiness leaking out of every pore, “I want to introduce you to the Avengers.”

 

You know that name. “Like on the news?” You’re pretty sure your mouth is hanging open ridiculously, but you can’t bring yourself to care, “The people who saved everyone?”

 

“Yes,” he says and takes hold of your hand, pulling you towards the group.

 

You gasp, and lean towards him when you take a second, harder look at the people there and lean towards Phil to ask desperately, “Is that really Captain America?” You’re helpless to the childlike wonder that leaches into your voice and expression.

 

That seems to startle a laugh out of him, though. “Yes,” he says, and adds at your expression, “It’s classified.”

 

You know you’re pouting, but… “That’s going to be a thing with you now, isn’t it?” Phil is a secret agent, or something. It’s difficult to reconcile the dork you befriended online with the man standing beside you - looking authoritative and powerful in his suit, but still warm and happy as you’d imagined him to be.

 

His smile turns rueful at your remark, “I’m afraid so.”

 

“Hey, Agent,” Tony Stark - of all people - break the almost-moment you and Phil were having, “Who’s this?”

 

“My friend,” he smiles at you as he answers, and this time it’s a different kind of smile; softer, and with a depth of emotion, “Who saved my life.”

 

And that’s the moment that the idea of all this not being a bad thing starts to take shape; that Phil knowing that you’re a mutant, and having Natasha find you, and everything that followed, isn’t something you’ve ever had to fear. It’s that befriending Phil online was just the first step towards the path Fate had intended for you.

 

And, for you both.

 

You trust Phil; you’re starting to understand the depths of Phil’s feelings for you, and yours for him in turn. It’s the start of him proving what you mean to him. And you’re quick to reciprocate.

 

You soon learn what it’s like to love the man whose heart you kept beating.

**Author's Note:**

> I should've been doing other things, but this happened instead... O.o


End file.
